


Pieces of soul

by ca_te



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-15
Updated: 2011-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:58:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ca_te/pseuds/ca_te
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was hard for John to accept what he was feeling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to blue_eyed_1987 for beta-ing and brit-picking. The next chapter will be up hopefully soon :) Comments are loved! <3

“Why don’t you take another little piece of my soul?”  
Queen – Let me live

John listened to the sounds coming from outside; shoes on the tarmac, cars passing by, the omnipresent rain splashing against the concrete of the pavement. He tried to concentrate on the newspaper opened in front of him. Sherlock hadn’t been there when he had woken up. He hadn’t been there for the last three days. The flat had been silent, just the fridge humming and the rain hitting the glass. It had been a year since he had moved in at 221b Baker Street, and yet it was the first time that he had discovered how lonely and deserted the flat was when Sherlock wasn’t around. It felt as if the space had grown, as if the things had grown more distant.

John sighed and memories of the times when he used to live alone in the small room he had found when he had came to London after rehab filled his mind. But they were only faded traces of a past that was long gone, and it was all thanks to Sherlock. He would have never thought that he would have been so grateful, that he would have considered the life that he was sharing with the consulting detective something unbelievably precious.  
Sherlock would probably laugh at that, at seeing John so attached. But if there was something which John had learnt during his life was that a person completely alike to another didn’t exist in the world, couldn’t exist. He had learnt how similar and yet how different he and Sherlock were and always would be. He couldn’t help it if where Sherlock saw numbers and traces he usually saw lives and people and feelings, but it didn’t feel wrong to be by Sherlock’s side, indeed it felt even more right.

John had always loved simplicity, he had seen and felt too many things not to be afraid of complexity. That was why there was something that thrilled him in Sherlock, in the almost inexplicable universe which he carried inside of him. That was why John was scared by the addiction that was blossoming inside himself. Yes, addiction, because in his vocabulary there was no other word which could explain it better. The desire, the need to run along the streets of London with Sherlock, the need to feel Sherlock’s arms and legs brushing against his own as they were riding a cab towards some crime scene. The need to know that somehow he could be a part of such an amazing man’s life. Because he had seen and touched Sherlock’s faults, but he had also seen the pure beauty of his intellect, of his strength and determination. He had seen the frailty of his loneliness, of the distance that he had put between himself and the world since when he had been little and just too different from the others.  
Sherlock was too many things tangled all together. And John sure couldn’t deny that he felt attracted by it all, and at the same time scared.

He tried to push away such thoughts, tried to concentrate on the words and images before him but it didn’t work. So he got up, took his coat and exited the house. Outside a cold wind was blowing, pieces of paper and leaves twirling in its wake. It was somehow uncomfortable to walk without Sherlock. Of course John had done that so many times, even during the year which he had spent by the detective’s side, but it was different when Sherlock had disappeared for days, without even texting or calling. John was too worried about pushing the boundaries that Sherlock had built around himself, he was too worried to make Sherlock fly away. So he hadn’t done anything, he hadn’t called or texted. He had just waited.

*

John woke up at the sound of the door being closed. He would recognise Sherlock’s footsteps among thousands. The lightness and carefulness of them, the soft sound of the woollen coat as Sherlock twirled around before hanging it behind the door. Something warm, which he tried not to label as relief, bubbled up inside his chest. He remained still, under the covers, listening to the small sounds which Sherlock was making. The sound of a computer starting up, the splashing of water into the sink. Suddenly John was overcome by the strong and defined desire to see him, to talk to him, to know that he was finally back home. He slipped out of bed and slowly padded down the stairs.

The man was sitting on the sofa, John’s laptop on his knees. The milky light of the screen was caressing his features, sliding on his cheekbones. John felt something surge and fall somewhere behind his sternum. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat, even though probably Sherlock had already known that he was awake and standing at the end of the stairs.

  
“So you came back.”

  
John realised how stupid his words were as soon as they had left his mouth. He didn’t want to sound like a girlfriend who had been waiting at home, he didn’t want to sound as someone who expected something. He knew all too well that there was nothing that he could expect, nothing that he should expect.

  
Sherlock looked at him from the corner of his eyes and something unnamed twirled in the grey of his irises.

“Indeed.”

  
John opened his mouth and closed it again.

  
“Would you like some tea? I’ve put the kettle on.”

  
Sherlock’s voice seemed somehow softer at the edges. John remained still, leaning against the doorframe and looking at the other man’s long fingers flying over the keyboard. Then he slowly moved and padded towards the kitchen. He felt as if Sherlock was studying him as he walked, but he didn’t turn to check. He took two clean mugs out of the cupboard and stared at the kettle for a moment. He felt as if something had been pressed and bottled up inside of him. It was the first time that he had felt such an urge to touch Sherlock, to feel his skin, and his warmth- at least the first time since after the incident at the pool. Back then he had been so sure that they were going to die, that he hadn’t hesitated and had held onto Sherlock’s arm tightly, because really if he had to die, it was alright to do it by Sherlock’s side, feeling Sherlock’s body against his own. He felt as if he was lost in the middle of a desert.

  
The kettle clicked and it came Sherlock’s voice.

  
“I do believe that the water is hot enough, John.”

  
John found himself smiling, and he was grateful for Sherlock’s ability to always offer him a way back to reality, even though it didn’t make his feelings less real.  
He walked back in the sitting room holding the two mugs. He cast a look outside.

  
“It’s stopped raining.”

  
John looked back at Sherlock who was still focused on the computer screen. He stopped in front of the couch, waiting for the other man to reach for the cup. Sherlock didn’t look up, he just slid on the sofa in order to leave a free seat. John felt something stirring in his stomach, one of those unnamed creatures that he carried inside and that Sherlock had somehow managed to awake.

  
He put the mugs on the coffee table and sat down. Sherlock closed the computer and leaned over to take his cup.

  
John couldn’t help but take in the sight of Sherlock’s long and flexible spine. He found himself wondering whether the detective had eaten at least a bit while he had been away. He knew all too well that Sherlock tended not to eat when he was following a case, unless John himself asked him and convinced him to.  
He carefully focused on the yellow of the tea as soon as Sherlock leaned back against the sofa.

  
“You could ask, you know?”

John turned.

  
“What?”

  
“Where I had been, or what I’ve done, or probably, considering how silent you’ve been, both.”

  
John realized that his hands were shaking slightly and he gripped the mug tighter. The porcelain was hot against his palms, but he held onto it for dear life. He was feeling too exposed, and he didn’t like it, after having tried so much and for so long to keep himself guarded. Life had taught him so; war had made him learn the lesson.

  
“I…It’s alright if you don’t talk to me about it, Sherlock. We’re both adults.”

  
And it truly wasn’t what he wanted to say, but it was the only think that he could come up with.

  
Sherlock looked straight at him, his face was calm, but John could imagine the wheels turning and clicking inside his brain; not that he could follow the paths and threads that the great detective could unwind.

  
“You look distressed, though. When you got inside the room you were slightly limping, your hands are shaking, even if you’re trying to hide it holding the mug tighter and…”

  
John didn’t know if it was because of the unexpected loneliness that he had felt whilst Sherlock was away, or because of the late hour, but he felt naked.  
He put down the mug on the coffee table, maybe with more force than it was necessary, but he was beyond the point of caring. He closed his hands into fists over his knees.

  
“You know what, Sherlock? Despite being a genius you really don’t understand a thing about people. You don’t see them at all.”

  
He tried to stay as calm as possible while he talked, but he could hear the slight crack in his voice, and he knew that Sherlock had surely noticed that too. So he simply got up and exited the room. As soon as he reached his bedroom he closed the door behind his back and leaned against it. The wood was hard against his spine, but he didn’t mind. He swallowed dry, trying to ignore the heat pressing behind his eyes. ‘It’s only tiredness’- that was what he kept repeating to himself as he got into bed and lay there looking at the ceiling. After a while the sound of Sherlock’s violin came. It was sad and powerful all together. John usually liked to listen to Sherlock playing, he always had the sensation that music was hidden somewhere inside Sherlock, that music was something which was strongly connected to his being. Music blossomed from the detective’s fingers as naturally as breathing. But that night the music made something else bubble up inside of him. Something that was so very close to an ache. John knew that the reason was his desire to reach out for Sherlock, to bypass all the boundaries and the walls, at least those that he still hadn’t been able to make fall down. He had hoped that, especially after the incident at the pool, they had become closer than ever. But maybe he had been wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and it was hard also for Sherlock to accept his unusual feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the waiting! Also in this chapter I tried to use also Sherlock's POV, it's my first attempt at doing such a thing, so I hope that it didn't come out too bad XD Thanks to blue_eyed_1987 for beta-ing and brit-picking!

The next morning he found Sherlock curled up on the couch. Sherlock didn’t lift his head when he heard John entering the room, he just curled up tighter in his blue dressing gown. The doctor opened his mouth but then quickly closed it and walked towards the kitchen. He spotted the two mugs that they had used the night before in the sink. It was weird to imagine Sherlock putting them there when he usually had never cared about putting things back in their place. That was what John would do, that was how it worked in the small universe of 221b Baker Street. John gripped the edge of the sink. He knew that he could no longer talk about a balance in their relationship- something had shifted under the surface; he might not be as bright as Sherlock was, but he could feel it. It was like constant vertigo. He wondered if he really was the only one to feel like this. There had been something off with Sherlock last night.

Over time John had come to understand, to feel, the detective’s wavelengths, the way he worked in different situations. Sherlock was all energy and sharp movements but they somehow had a pattern, John had seen it, had learnt it. Because Sherlock was always Sherlock, he had never failed John, he had slowly become John’s constant. And that was the reason why it was clear to John that there had been a change in his friend’s wavelengths, there had been something slightly off putting.  
John blinked and shook his head realising that he had been gripping the edge of the sink for minutes. He listened carefully, trying to pick up any noise coming from the other room. Everything was silent and he wondered if Sherlock was doing the same; listening to the sounds John was making. He sighed and put the kettle on.

He was a soldier, he had faced worst threats, so why on earth wasn’t he able to confront Sherlock?  
Something twisted deep inside of him and he knew that the answer to the question was crystal clear.

*

Sherlock had grown tired of studying the back of the couch and closed his eyes. Judging from the silence coming from the kitchen John had stopped and judging from the number of paces that he had counted he had stopped in front of the sink.  
Sherlock was a man of science, a man of thought, and he knew perfectly well that it was hard for him to completely unfold the book of people’s emotions. John was like an open book for him, but there had always been a certain unpredictability about him. It made Sherlock imagine a bullet abruptly changing its trajectory.  
Sherlock bit his lower lip until the taste of copper filled his mouth.

The sound of John putting the kettle on crawled out from the kitchen and Sherlock sat up. He felt restless and it was unnerving. It was as if his mind kept derailing, and that wasn’t something his mind had ever done or should have done. Sherlock might not be an expert of human emotions or relations, but he knew that the disturbance in what could be called his balance had been caused by John.

It was unsettling, and not like him at all. He had never let another person affect him, never. People had always passed him by, like ghosts, shadows or puzzles to solve. Attachment, love, affection had always been only words, their meaning known to him only because he had to take them in consideration to solve his cases. But with John it was different. The doctor had somehow managed to push through; before Sherlock had realised it. It was perfectly normal to have him around, when he had always lived alone before. To need his help and his support. To smile at his praise. To feel safe just knowing that John was by his side.

Sherlock had never needed anyone before. It was both scary and fascinating that he needed John now.

The consulting detective’s eyes widened a little. There was an uncomfortable knot, he believed people described it like that, in his throat. He brushed his fingers over his sternum. He shook his head and got up.

Sherlock almost collided with John in front of the kitchen door. He shuddered at the sudden feeling of John’s warm weight against himself. Contact was something that dull, normal people did, why did he have the desire to feel John, to collide with him.

John was looking up at him; the azure of his eyes was calm, but Sherlock could see the questions twirling in there. He tilted his head to the side and did what seemed more logical to get more data on the mysterious living creature that John Watson was. He simply pressed his palm against John’s ribcage. It seemed the fastest and simplest way to estimate if John’s heart was beating faster or if the calmness in his eyes wasn’t only apparent.

It was…unusual. Sherlock had barely touched someone intentionally in his life. Probably only his brother and his parents when he had been a child, and that hadn’t happened very often anyway. Instead he was feeling John’s heart against the palm of his hand. It was beating fast, like a war drum. Sherlock stared at his hand open on John’s chest looking like a pale starfish.

“Sherlock?”

John’s voice sounded slightly cracked at the edges; he was nervous then.  
Sherlock lifted his gaze. He let it wander over the lines at the corner of John’s right eye, over his blond eyelashes, and finally over his slightly parted mouth.  
“John.”

He observed as the shorter man opened and closed his mouth. Sherlock pressed his hand against John’s ribcage a little bit more firmly. He could feel the muscles shift under his touch, and the persistent thundering of John’s heart.  
Sherlock had never been truly interested in what a human heart could do when still working. He had always had more interest for corpses and body parts. Not for an entire living human being. And yet he was there, in front of John, touching him.

“What- what are you doing?”

Sherlock registered the fact that John still hadn’t moved away.

“What do you think I’m doing? I’m feeling your heartbeat.”

It was obvious and yet it sounded weird to his own ears. Sherlock Holmes didn’t care about heartbeats. Sherlock Holmes didn’t feel his heartbeat accelerating when touching someone else.

“Yeah, I…I see that, but...”

John swallowed and gently took hold of Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock looked at John’s fingers against his skin. He felt John’s touch. It was gently and light. He wouldn’t have imagined it. He didn’t want to move his hand. He didn’t care if there was some unwritten rule about not touching one’s flatmate or not feeling drawn in by him. Those were useless social norms that average- therefore certainly not very intelligent- people had codified.

“Sherlock…you’re scaring me.”

John’s nervous laugh reverberated against Sherlock’s palm. The consulting detective suddenly felt as if someone had squeezed the air out of his lungs. He knew that it was scientifically impossible and yet that was the best description of what he was feeling.

He decided that he needed to clear up his mind, keeping that ball of feelings and thoughts closed up inside of himself was definitely useless.

He looked straight into John’s eyes, he saw the mixture of expectation and worry that was swimming in the pale azure or the doctor’s irises.

Sherlock leant forward and pressed his lips against John’s.  
He kept his eyes open, watching as John closed his own and as the lines which had furrowed the doctor’s forehead disappeared.

At first John’s lips were firm, then he felt them relaxing and responding to his own. John kissed in a very gently way, almost delicate, and yet it made something ignite inside of Sherlock. He felt his heart speed up and his thoughts derailed. He tried to classify the texture of John’s lips, the pressure of them, but all the data went lost in some sort of soft haze. That was more than unusual.

Sherlock felt a shiver run along his spine, even though the weather was not cold, and closed his eyes.  
It was completely new. Sure it wasn’t the first time that Sherlock kissed someone, but the other few times he had been experimenting, testing. There hadn’t been that…that undefined curling at the bottom of his stomach. He had never wanted someone so much. Indeed he had truly never wanted anyone.

*

John couldn’t help but smile against Sherlock’s lips. For an instant he was scared that he was dreaming, that he could open his eyes and Sherlock would disappear. But then Sherlock licked at his lower lip and John could feel the heat growing everywhere inside of him. He let himself go and leaned against Sherlock, lifting his hands and letting them rest against Sherlock’s chest. He could feel Sherlock’s heartbeat accelerating and he felt something close to pride at the thought that he could make Sherlock’s heart beat so fast.

It was no use denying it, John had felt something for Sherlock since the very beginning. Sherlock had always been beyond every other people whom he had ever met. Even with his faults the only word that John could use to describe him was perfect. The thought that he was kissing and touching the perfection that Sherlock was made something inside of him tremble.

When they broke the kiss he opened his eyes and looked at taller man. Sherlock’s eyes were wide and the grey of his irises seemed even more intense than usual. He was afraid of speaking, as if words would make them grow apart, but he had to.

“Sherlock…that…”

Sherlock pressed one of his long and elegant fingers against John’s lips and the doctor almost chocked on his breath.

“I believe there’s no need for words, John.”

Hearing Sherlock pronouncing his name with such a low and deep voice made John shiver. But he didn’t want to be simply another experiment on Sherlock’s list.

“But Sherlock, I…”

Sherlock tilted his head to the side and quirked his eyebrow. John knew that he was annoyed. He had learnt how to read Sherlock’s expressions. He cleared his throat, he wanted to take hold of Sherlock’s hands but he tried to control himself.

“Look, I…I know that this may sound stupid and meaningless to you, but…I…”

“John…I wouldn’t have kissed you if I hadn’t a good reason to do so.”

John looked as Sherlock concentrated on trying to find the right words.

“I mean if I didn’t want to.”

Sherlock’s eyes were focused and as John looked at him he knew that he was saying the truth. He knew, he felt, that Sherlock needed him, more than he had ever needed anyone, and he wouldn’t risk it if it wasn’t for a good reason. He smiled and something warm twirled around his heart as he saw a corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirk up in one of those half smiles which Sherlock usually showed only to him.

“Good then.”

He simply let his arms encircle Sherlock’s thin waist and kissed him. Sherlock responded to the kiss right away and John thought that surely Sherlock was the most fascinating and thrilling adventure that he could ever stumble into. The detective was the only thing that could have mended the pieces of his soul; John was sure of it.

Sherlock hummed into the kiss and John had to let go of all his thoughts as his and Sherlock’s wavelengths interweaved again and again.


End file.
